


Hands On

by thisstarvingartist



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-25
Updated: 2015-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-01 05:28:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4007614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisstarvingartist/pseuds/thisstarvingartist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With Finch, he was running <em>towards</em> something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands On

**Author's Note:**

> From this prompt from Talking2thesky on tumblr:
> 
> "You're looking for prompts? May I ask for something weirdly specific? I've been craving some hurt/comfort where Reese basically really badly injures both hands (like, burns them maybe?) and Finch has to do everything for him..."
> 
> I love this prompt! I honestly wish I had done a little bit more with it than I did... but thank you for sending it to me, I absolutely adore how creative this prompt is! Enjoy!

John was running. He did that a lot, had all his life; always running away from something. Sometimes enemies, often friends—he never really kept those for very long, for obvious reasons. But it was different, working for Finch. With Finch, he was running _towards_ something.

This time, it happened to be an unhappy ex-employee with an unused rifle through an ethanol distillery.

“Are you catching up to him, Mr. Reese?” Finch’s distinct voice inquired over the comm.

“Getting there, Finch,” he panted. “It’s a little easier to run without talking.”

“Noted.”

John allowed the slight uptick at the corner of his mouth pass by without his usual restraint; it was dark, nobody was there in the distillery besides he and the number. No cameras nearby. No one would ever know.

The ex-employee—Bryan Euler, thirty-two, recorded anger issues—was apparently faster than his paunchy stomach and stubby legs gave him credit for, but John was catching up fast, years of running behind his strong, quick limbs.

Euler knew, too, with every glance over his shoulder, that John was gaining on him. His endurance was fading, John was sure, which meant that he’d be looking for last-ditch attempts at escape. He turned, fired once; the bullet missed by such a long shot John didn’t feel it even necessary to dodge.

Euler stumbled from the turn, tripping into stacks of full barrels lined against the outer wall of the building. Two of the barrels fell from the top of the stack, slamming against the pavement with such a force that they exploded. John reeled back, falling to the ground and into the quickly growing pool of ethanol. Euler didn’t notice his pursuer’s fall; not before he reeled back again and took another shot.

This one made its way into an overhanging streetlamp, shattering the glass and sending fiery sparks searing down to the glistening street below.

\--

John drifted in and out of consciousness for months—at least, it seemed like months. When he finally managed to maintain wakefulness for longer than a few hours, he learned from Harold that it had only been two days.

“Most of the burns are superficial,” Harold told him. He was at John’s bedside, in the master bedroom of a well-furnished safe house of Harold’s on the upper east side of Manhattan. His suit was only slightly disheveled, tie askew half an inch to the left and his hair just on the wrong side of unkempt, but for Harold, he may as well have been in a nuclear explosion.

“Most?” John’s voice was barely above a croaking whisper. It hurt to speak, to move, to breathe; his eyes still burned from the smoke and his throat was scorched but he had refused medicine despite Harold’s urges.

“There is some… more serious damage in some places.”

He meant John’s hands. Amusingly, they were the only part of his body that _didn’t_ hurt; they were wrapped in pristine white bandages, each finger methodically bound to fit like a glove, but completely useless to him in such a state. He wouldn’t be able to work any numbers for weeks.

Weeks. He would be _useless_ to Harold, for weeks. The idea of not being able to help the numbers, not being able to help _Harold_ , made him sick.

“Please don’t try to concern yourself with the numbers right now, Mr. Reese,” Harold said. “Our dear Detectives and Miss Shaw are more than capable of handling anything that may come up while we’re indisposed.”

After working so closely together as long as they had, John supposed, he should have gotten used to Harold reading his mind. The man truly did know exactly everything about him. He opted not to question Harold’s telepathic tendencies and instead focus on Harold’s apparent pronoun confusion.

“‘We’?” John asked.

Harold huffed, that soft exhale he considered a laugh. “John, for the next month you aren’t going to be able to use your hands. Did you think I was going to leave you here by yourself—or, for goodness sake, with someone _else_?”

Well, no. Of course not. And once John thought about it, he’d really known that all along. Harold was far too dedicated a man—and a friend—to leave John like that, so carelessly. To abandon him in this rare time of sincere need. And, really, if it would have been anyone else, John wasn’t entirely sure that he’d be able to accept the assistance: it was a level of trust and vulnerability that was privy only to Harold, no one else.

\--

Even though it was Harold, it didn’t truly occur to John just how dependent he would be, and it was quite honestly a little unnerving. It was a whole new level of vulnerable to let someone spoon feed him his meals in bed, clean up after him, read to him… that part, actually, he couldn’t claim to feel anything save for saturated pleasure, hearing Harold’s voice directly beside him, narrating Evert Backstrom’s life history every night until he drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, tucked in and well fed. But everything else, the hair brushing, the shaving, had him both flattered and almost disturbed.

Harold, for his part, seemed entirely unconcerned with their situation; he was dutiful and dedicated, uncensored in his analysis of John’s condition—which only very rarely passed his meticulous inspection. John learned that, conveniently for Harold though faintly troubling to John, third degree burns were slightly more explainable than bullet wounds in the abdomen. Four elite specialists had visited him in the past six hours for nothing more than quick checkups, and by the time the last left John could only wonder just how bottomless Harold’s funds really were and why it made him so warm inside to know that Harold was this indulgent in his care.

After finishing their most recent Backstrom novel, Harold sat back, gazing at John, still somehow half-awake despite how tired he felt.

Harold was frowning, not his usual slightly perturbed frown but one that was distinctly upset, concerned. He had large purple bags under his eyes.

“Have you slept?” John asked him, knowing the answer. He may not be able to read minds, but he could recognize the signs of sleep deprivation. Harold sighed, a tiny, unhappy sound.

“It’s a bit more prudent to focus on _your_ needs at the moment, John,” Harold said to him.

“You need to get some rest.”

“John,” Harold sighed again, his eyes examining every inch of John’s physical form, so focused and intent, like he was with any code.

Without preamble he reached out a hand and stroked John’s temple, a soft, intimate touch. John stared up at him, helpless, at his mercy, and let the sensation of Harold’s skin caressing his take over his every sense.

It seemed as though every boundary between them (what few that had been left over the years, really) had crumbled with this one last twist of fate, bringing them so close they couldn’t breathe without sharing air. John didn’t mind sharing air with Harold. He didn’t mind any of it, really; that was what had him so concerned.

All his life, he’d been trained to make sure that nothing would get in the way of the mission. The number one cause of mission failures, in his former line of work, anyway, had been personal attachment to colleagues. Now… he was beginning to realize that he couldn’t pretend his relationship with Harold was evolving into something very, very dangerous.

“Harold,” John murmured, but Harold hushed him with a finger lightly touching the seam of his lips. His eyes bored into John’s and John felt that warmth spread inside him again, and he was used to fighting away good things. He could fight this off, before it consumed him. Before it consumed both of them.

“I had to listen to you scream,” Harold whispered, so quietly John could barely hear. “All the way to that distillery; I couldn’t do anything but listen to you while you screamed.”

“I’m sorry,” John said, and Harold hushed him again, touched his cheek, ran his palm over John’s smoothly shaven jaw.

“When we began this, the numbers were my priority,” Harold said. “But right now, all I want to think about is keeping you safe.”

Those were the words, the ones that John had been so afraid of, and yet… they sounded like a harmony, like angels singing from above. It felt like a gift, to know that he was needed by Harold as more than a tool in his construction of a better world. That he was… wanted.

“I want to protect the numbers, Harold,” John told him, honestly.

Harold nodded, quick but unwavering. “Of course, John; I’d never ask you to stop if it wasn’t what you wanted. And the numbers are, as ever, unequivocally important to me. However…” He removed his glasses, folding the arms and placing them neatly on the nightstand. John’s heartbeat sped up at the sight of Harold’s face, exposed and naked to him like a fresh work of art, paint still glistening on the canvas.

“… I would like to make it absolutely clear that whenever you’re ready for retirement, there will be a place for you. Here, in New York. With me. Of course.”

“Of course,” John croaked, feeling his throat stick. His eyes watered. He blinked the unshed tears away; they were unnecessary in this moment. “Harold.”

“John?”

“There’s a place here for you, you know. With me.” Right here. Right now.

Harold smiled, his favorite tiny smirk, and dipped his head in acknowledgement.

Hours later the warmth of his body was soaking John’s, his sleeping form tucked snugly under John’s arm. John was falling asleep, too, but he fought it, wanting to preserve this moment, this snapshot in time that may never be repeated, their lives were so hectic, the danger so real.

Harold shifted underneath him, draped an arm across his chest. His lips moved up to press a gentle kiss to the shell of John’s ear just before he whispered “Go to sleep, John. We’ll both still be here in the morning.”

And in spite of everything, John knew that he was right.


End file.
